


Just a Scratch

by mobuyo



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pining, Short & Sweet, i dont understand tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27378895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mobuyo/pseuds/mobuyo
Summary: The Exarch sustains a minor blow to the rib, but the payoff far outweighs the pain.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter I

“But if you seek to stir up trouble,  _ Elidibus, _ ” the Exarch continues in a jovial tone laced with ice, “then I must insist you leave at once.”

The tension in the air is more than palpable. Intimidating as he could hope to be, the Exarch knows better than to overestimate one who would threaten the Warrior of Darkness (and Light).

Elidibus casts a passing glance over him, sending a chill down his spine. His heart pounds in his chest, a steady reminder of his own mortality. But he stands his ground, not daring to betray even the slightest show of fear. The Ascian fixes his gaze once more on Z'rhen, who also stands unmoving, though he looks distinctly more menacing.

Then Elidibus simply turns and leaves, staring straight ahead as he passed. The Exarch breathes a quiet sigh of relief, looking to where Z'rhen––

_ Ow. _

Something was thrust into his side. It knocks the air from his lungs. He staggers backward, gasping.

Whatever Elidibus says to him as he vanishes into darkness, the Exarch can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears.

It’s as if someone had taken a hammer to his rib. He fumbles for the source of the wound –– a knife, perhaps? –– but his hand comes away empty.

“ _ Ngh _ , what did he— …” He can’t find the words.

The pain subsides rather quickly, but just as he looks to his friend, Z’rhen too collapses to his knees, clutching his head.

A vision from the Echo, by the looks of it. G’raha looks on as that vacant stare overtakes the pained expression.

He’d seen the Warrior of Darkness’s gift at work once before, and knows full well that a mere moment for the rest of them could be eons for Rhen, so adept is this power at transporting his consciousness into another space and time entirely.

He came to after a few seconds, shaking the dizziness away. The Exarch offers a reassuring smile but is met with a worried gaze from Z’rhen as he looks him over, searching for signs of injury.

“It’s alright,” the Exarch insisted, struggling to his feet. “Whatever he tried, it must not have worked.”

The words did nothing to ease his concerns, it seemed, because he still wears that worried frown. The Exarch’s heart flutters at that; how his friend frets so, and over  _ him _ , of all people…

Enough of that. He seeks a change of topic.

“Did your vision reveal anything to you?”

“He did this once before,” Z’rhen murmurs. “A long time ago, to Minfilia.”

A long time ago, indeed. He opens his mouth to reply, but finds himself at a loss for words.

And to think he’d earned such a lofty reputation as an eloquent speaker among the citizens of the Crystarium, just to freeze when it counts. What good is eloquence if it turns tail and flees in the presence of the Warrior of Darkness?

“It appears I’m none the worse for wear,” he offers at Z’rhen’s continued staring, and stands for good measure to dust off his robes.

Z’rhen remains fully unconvinced.

He relents. “...Mayhap we should investigate further. Would you care to join me in the tower?”

A nod. The Exarch steps forward a few paces, but Z’rhen is still standing in place. The realization dawns that the Warrior of Darkness is accustomed to others forging on without him, always left to follow from a distance.

What a lonely existence.

“Ah… Perhaps you wouldn’t mind walking beside me?”


	2. Chapter II

The walk to the tower feels remarkably short, though the Exarch did his part to prolong it as much as possible without being too obvious. He felt a pang of selfishness for having purposefully slowed his gait––he’d even stumbled a few times, just to watch his friend fret over him.

But he’d spent more than a century preparing to receive this guest. He may not deserve a few stolen moments of his company, but he relishes them nonetheless, and hopefully fate will forgive him this moment of selfishness.

“We should call on Chessamile,” Z'rhen’s voice, muffled by the piece of bread in his mouth, pulls him from his thoughts.

In the time it took them to make their way to the Exarch’s quarters, Z'rhen had since abandoned that silent and intimidating Hero Persona in favor of unabashedly devouring the few precious slices of bread the Exarch had been gifted just this afternoon.

“That won’t be necessary,” the Exarch assures him. “I believe I can handle it. I’ll just examine the wound…”

He shudders as pain shoots through his side again. Perhaps removing his robes may prove more difficult than he thought.

“So stubborn,” Z'rhen says. “Here, sit. Let me do it.”

G’raha’s heart backflips against his ribs. All he can offer in reply was a series of small nods as he sits on the edge of his bed. Z'rhen hardly waits for an answer, and sets to gingerly easing the heavy fabrics from his shoulders.

“You wear a lot of layers,” he murmurs. A hint of a smile tugs at his lips, barely noticeable to the untrained eye. “It’s a wonder you’re not more muscular, lugging a malm of cloth around.”

“You’re one to talk,” the Exarch teases, feeling a century younger.

“That’s not fair.” Subconsciously he puts a hand to his own scarf–a long, well-worn piece of fabric that has clearly been mended repeatedly over time until it scarcely resembled itself. “This doesn’t count.”

The Exarch’s tail swishes beneath his robe, an instinctive reaction to a playfulness stirring from some forgotten part of himself. A chuckle turns to a wince as the pain crawls its way up his ribs once more.

“We really should call on Chessamile,” Z'rhen says.

“I must insist we don’t. I couldn’t pry her from her station, not at this hour...” A playful tone creeps into his voice, “...And why should I, when I’m currently in the company of a famous Red Mage of Eorzea?”

In truth, he couldn’t ask for Chessamile, even if Z'rhen _wasn’t_ here. It was so _embarrassing_ to be injured. He is still reeling from the incident with Emet-Selch, an encounter which he truly believed caused more damage to his ego than it did the rest of his body.

Chessamile chastised him even as she brought him back from the brink of death, and still hasn’t forgiven him for the whole debacle. As if it was _his_ fault for getting kidnapped during his own martyrdom.

At their reunion in the Tempest, Z'rhen swept him up in a hug--

_G’raha_ , he’d called him. For the first time in eons.

And he’d nearly succeeded in playing off his reaction. “Nearly” being the operative word, as G’raha promptly burst into tears at the sound of his name from his hero’s lips, then took no more than three wobbling steps toward home when he collapsed, quite unceremoniously, into a startled Alisaie’s arms.

He cringes at the memory of being paraded through the gates of the city, barely conscious, slung over Thancred’s shoulder like a battered sack of popotoes.

The Crystarium may be a large city, but word travels fast–especially if it has anything to do with the Exarch or his peculiar friends. The entire populace has been on edge since his unceremonious return–– to them, he is no longer some vague and immortal wizard; he is a simple mystel. Fragile.

Z'rhen hadn’t bothered to respond to his earlier jest, aside from a momentary half-smile. Instead, he starts to pull at the ribbon of the undershirt, but G’raha grabs his hand.

“I’m sorry. Could you… If you wouldn’t mind, just… healing it from here?”

Z'rhen frowns. “I can’t even see it.”

“I know, I know. It’s just, I…”

_I don’t look normal._

“If you’re worried about dignity,” Z'rhen huffs, “I could cover my eyes. But I need you to take off the shirt for me to examine it.”

The Exarch swallows a knot in his throat, but nods reluctantly. Z'rhen scoffs –– he wasn’t expecting the Exarch to actually _agree_ to such a ridiculous caveat –– but he obliges, pulling his scarf from his neck and tying it around his head. It’s so thick that it nearly swallows the top half of his head whole.

“Really, Raha,” Z'rhen sighs, looking truly ridiculous.

G’raha thanks the Twelve that Z'rhen can no longer see him–– mostly his ears, which had perked up in recognition of his name, as well as the warmth flushing his face. He _hates_ when Z'rhen calls him that.

He slips the last layer down below his shoulders, taking care not to agitate the ache in his side. His now bare skin prickles a bit in the cool night air, unaccustomed to the sensation.

“Well, I’ve done it,” he announces in a bundle of nerves, fighting to keep his voice from trembling. “You can… er, heal away, now.”

Z'rhen must’ve made a face, but his expression is unreadable beneath the scarf–– except for his mouth, which is pressed into a frown.

“Right. Can’t see it. Yes, of course,” the Exarch stammers. “I’ll just…”

Gingerly, he grabs hold of Z'rhen’s outstretched hand and guides it to his side. Z'rhen leans forward on his knees as his fingertips gently roam the area.

His hand thrums with magic, the touch sending tingles up G’raha’s side. He resists the urge to double over in dizziness, opting instead to go stiff as a board, hold his breath, and pray to whatever gods are listening that Z'rhen can’t feel his heart racing.

“H-how is it?” His voice comes out twice as loud as he meant it to.

“Hard to say,” Z'rhen says, deeply focused. “ _Bastard_.”

That doesn’t sound too good.

Z'rhen mutters under his breath, shifting uncomfortably under the heavy scarf that is still attempting to consume his entire head. “Gods, this thing _itches_. What does it look like?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The wound.”

“Oh. Er.”

The Exarch looks at his wound.

It looks like… nothing. There is no sign of injury, not even the faintest sign of bruising. The crystal hasn’t yet lay claim to this part of his abdomen –– and he’s not sure whether or not he should wish it had been there, protecting him.

“Raha.” Z'rhen is kneeling there, ears twitching irritably under the cloth’s suffocating hold. “Your wound.”

“Well,” he starts. “It’s bare– I mean, it’s my skin, my _bare_ skin, and it’s… sort of, pale? B-but that’s the color of _all_ of my skin, w-which is to say, I suppose _I’m_ quite pale–”

“Thal’s _balls_ , if I could just–!” Z'rhen tears the scarf from his head and flings it to the floor.

Silence.

Z'rhen kneels there, staring at G’raha, who sits and stares back. The few seconds of silence stretch for eons. Despite the fact that only his chest is visible, G’raha has never felt more indecent in his life, and the very act of sitting still in such a manner is torture.

“Sorry,” Z’rhen says softly.

“Quite alright,” G’raha says just as quietly.

“Well, it didn't leave a physical mark.” returns his attention to the wound. “Seems like it didn’t do any real harm. But…”

“What is it?”

G’raha can hardly breathe. Is Z'rhen repulsed by the sight of him–– partly mystel, partly Crystal Tower; a living monument to the undying hunger of the Allagans? He fights the urge to scoop up his robe and bury himself in it, to hide and never come out.

“He blocked an aether channel on the way out.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not so bad. I could unblock it.”

He sighs. Better safe than sorry.

“Very well. Do what you must.”


	3. Chapter III

If one were to enter the Exarch’s private chambers at this very moment, one would bear witness to a rather unusual sight: The Exarch, naked from the waist up, lying prone in his bed with the Warrior of Darkness knelt over him with his hands pressed firmly into the Exarch’s lower back.

The very thought of such an occurrence makes the Exarch feel faint. He resolves to squeeze his eyes shut even tighter and tries with all his might to banish the thought from his mind entirely.

“You’re tense,” says Z'rhen. “Try to relax.”

“Sorry, I… My mind was elsewhere.”

“I can tell.” He leans forward once more, resuming his work, and the bed creaks in reply. “Gods, how can you sleep in this thing? It’s so… springy.”

Ah, right. Z'rhen was never one for plush accommodations, as he recalls, having lived a life of constant travel from one danger to the next. For he who spends most of his nights sleeping in trees, even a regular bed must seem rather suffocating.

The Exarch begins to reply when suddenly it feels as though someone has seized the muscles in his side and yanked them taut. He yelps, gripping the sheets between his fingers.

“Sorry,”––muttered effortfully through gritted teeth.

The pull grows nearly unbearable until, in one swift motion, Z'rhen braces his palm with his other hand and pushes, _hard_ , into the Exarch’s back.

A burst of aether flares through his body, a wave of warmth and release and _utter godsdamned bliss_ blooming from his very core to the tips of his fingers and toes, dissolving an ache he didn’t even know he had. He melts into the bed, a puddle of himself, barely feeling his limbs.

Z'rhen sits back with a sigh of relief.

“ _Mmh_ ,” says the Exarch.

In his blissful haze, he hardly feels the bed shifting as Rhen eases off of it and got to his feet. There is quiet shuffling as he gathers his long scarf from where it lay in a heap on the floor.

“I’ll check on it next time we meet,” says Z'rhen, making for the door.

The sound of his receding footsteps brings G’raha’s mind back from its haze. He hadn’t even thanked him.

“Ah, well,” he eases himself up to sit upright in the bed, “Th-thank you, for … everything. I can only shudder to think what Elidibus might have done if you hadn’t been there.”

Z'rhen doesn’t turn around as the door closes behind him. “Goodnight.”

It sounded so final. G’raha feels his stomach churn. Did he speak out of turn? Had he grown bored of him and his blubbering? Perhaps he planned to return to the Source once more, and he couldn’t blame him; homesickness was a horrible feeling.

Then, the door opens, just slightly ajar. Z'rhen’s voice comes quietly from behind it.

“Raha?”

His ears perk up.

“... I’m glad you’re alive. Let’s keep it that way.”

Before he can reply, the door shuts once more, and he is left once more in silence.

He collapses back into the bed with a sigh. Tracing his fingers over his side, the Exarch allows a smile to creep across his lips.

Perhaps he should get attacked more often.

**Author's Note:**

> im by no means a Real Fanfic Writer. i dont know what proofreading or beta or anything is, but i figured i'd post these somewhere to contribute to the already-giant pile of catboy!WoL/exarch things.
> 
> thanks for reading !


End file.
